


12 Days of Carnivale

by WriteOnMyWay



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, Angst, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-21 05:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17037626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOnMyWay/pseuds/WriteOnMyWay
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for the occasion.Day 1 - "a special disguise" (Hickey/Irving)Day 3 - "naughty or nice" (Hickey/Irving)Day 4 - "an unexpected gift" (Hickey, Irving, Little, Gibson; major character death)Day 6 - "fire and ice" (Hickey/Irving)Day 7 - "sledge ride"





	1. Day 1 - "a special disguise"

“Are you ready yet?”

The door is open but John – ever the gentleman, ever the shy one – does not come in.

“Almost. Now, what do you think?”

John peeks in the room and frowns, curiosity giving way to confusion and something akin to mild irritation.

“What kind of costume is that?”

Cornelius, dressed in a black suit fit for a BBC period drama, turns away to face the mirror and runs a finger along the brim of his top hat.

“A young English lord who’s bored to death by all the balls and social gatherings he has to attend in this festive season. He drags himself to yet another one, nearly sick at the mere thought of yet another evening of dull conversations, cheap champagne and shameless hypocrisy. Little does he know that this evening is different, for he is about to meet a young and handsome… _really,_ John? An _angel?”_

John’s face turns an embarrassed pink as he defensively adjusts the halo made out of wire and fluffy yellow yarn.

“It’s _Christmas_ and we’re visiting _kids in a hospital_. They want miracles and fun, not elaborate backstories with… _inappropriate_ details.”

Cornelius squints.

“The circumstances under which you do look _angelic,_ John, are _far_ from appropriate as well.”

John’s face turns crimson and he makes a weird gargling sound but quickly composes himself, gives Cornelius a stern look and exits the room, one of his makeshift wings catching on the doorknob and losing a few feathers.

Quite unexpectedly, John is rewarded for his suffering half an hour later. Everyone is already in the hospital lobby, chatting and laughing as they wait for Dr. MacDonald – the mastermind behind the plan – to come and escort them to the children’s wing. Sir John arrives last, accompanied by an excited, rosy-cheeked Lady Jane. They wave at Sophia who came earlier with Harry and Silna and start greeting and complimenting the rest of the company.

“How lovely!” Sir John, dressed as Santa Claus, beams through his thick white beard. “And what ingenious costumes! Darling, look, we even have a _chimneysweep!_ Well done, everybody, well done!”


	2. Day 3 - "naughty or nice"

Cornelius loves presents. He can act tough all he likes but whenever he’s handed a box wrapped in patterned paper his eyes light up and he struggles to keep a smile off his face. It’s endearing, really. He places the box in front of him and carefully takes the wrapping off as if to savor the moment, as if to give John a chance to say that there’s been a mistake, that whatever’s inside is meant for someone else.

“You ever been on Santa’s ‘nice’ list?” he asks one evening, sitting cross-legged beside their huge Christmas tree, an unopened present clutched to his chest.

“Sure. You?”

“Never. Always been ‘naughty’. Soon stopped tryin’.”

Something in Cornelius’ tone makes John look up from his own gift – a set of expensive watercolors he’s been eyeing for literal months.

“Now I realize it’s ‘cause my parents couldn’t be bothered,” deft fingers are undoing the ribbon with precision and accuracy, so that the red strip of plastic could be used again, on a different occasion. “Still, it wouldn’t ‘ave killed them. I never asked for much anyway. Wait, is that?..”

John shrugs his shoulders with a shy smile. He has no idea why this particular set of headphones is better than other models but Cornelius’ face is worth every second put into the research.

“Merry Christmas. I hope you like them.”

Cornelius laughs and shakes his head, a sniffle barely audible.

“That’s the first time I’m glad that life ain’t fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothin’,” Cornelius’ lips are warm against John’s cheek. “Can you draw this tree here? I wanna remember it.”


	3. Day 4 - "an unexpected gift"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death, mention of blood, ye be warned.

The air in the hold is foul, a revolting mixture of disgusting smells and sounds woven into an invisible cloth choking the very life out of everyone foolish enough to stay there longer than necessary.

Lieutenant Irving is floundering back and forth in the darkness like a desperate ghost, feet slipping in the thick grey sludge, mittenless hands clutching a lantern already numb, face streaked with dirt and tears.

Someone grabs him by the shoulders and forces to turn around. Edward Little.

“John? John, what’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve lost something,” Irving’s voice is hoarse from the cold and the crying. “It’s important but I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it somewhere here, I must find it…”

“What is it? What have you lost?”

Irving pauses. The thing he’s looking for definitely has a name. It must. People wouldn’t go around calling it “beads on a string”, no, that would lead to confusion with women’s necklaces, and it’s certainly not a  _necklace_  he’s after.

“John, you are freezing. And you’re tired, you need to sleep.”

Little means well and his face is nothing but concern and kindness but he’s talking to John as if the latter were a baby, and Irving wants to hit him.

“Whatever it is, you must have simply misplaced it. Come now, get some rest, then we’ll look for it together. Thomas will help. Come on.”

Irving really  _is_  tired, so he allows Little to escort him up the countless ladders. He plops down on his bunk and watches Gibson silently move about the cabin. Suddenly, the word comes back.

“I’ve lost my rosary, Mr. Gibson.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Would you like me to go look for it?”

“No, there’s no need.”

“Very well, sir.”

Irving turns away and closes his eyes. He feels robbed – robbed of the memories and hopes and dreams and what little comfort he had left, robbed mindlessly, not for someone’s profit but simply because that  _thing_  on the ice, the ice itself, this cruel land could do that to him. It hurts.

 

The next evening he comes back to his bunk to find a small bundle on the pillow. Inside it is a thin rope tied into a loop, with knots for beads. The number of knots is wrong but Irving takes the makeshift rosary and hides it as close to his body as he can. No one will rob him again, not of this.

 

Weeks later, when Lieutenant Irving is dying in the Arctic wilderness, his murderer looks him in the eye and starts searching his pockets. He finds the rosary and smiles, a weird mixture of amusement and pity in his eyes, as grey as the sharp stones that drink up Irving’s blood.

“I’m afraid I need it more than you do, Lieutenant. I’ll put it to good use, I promise.”

Hickey uses his teeth to undo the tiny knots and Irving is thankful when his vision starts to blur. Hickey says something else but his words are lost, drowned out by the clacking of invisible beads. Someone is praying for him, thinks Irving. Someone is…


	4. Day 6 - "fire and ice"

John is dreaming of fire and smoke. He’s standing on a stage and singing, a beautiful melody coming out of his mouth as distorted, haunting wailing. This song tastes like ashes, it scratches at his throat and sticks to his teeth. Flames are rising from the blackened wooden planks, twisting around his ankles, crawling under his skin, cocooning him in thick, airless heat. He’s trying to sing over the roar of the fire but the sound is dissolving in the fumes, becoming one with great black-and-grey swirls.

He wakes up with a startled gasp, kicking and pushing his blanket away. The room is cool and dark, filled with a familiar yet indiscernible smell of home. Cornelius is fast asleep mere inches to the right, his legs tangled in his favorite duvet. It’s just a dream. Nothing to worry about.

 

Cornelius is dreaming of ice. He’s been running from something – or maybe  _towards_  something – but now he’s stopped in his tracks, encased in a huge block of ice like a fly in a piece of amber. He’s still alive, at least enough to feel the ice soak up his warmth. The howling of the wind is muffled by the transparent walls of his tomb. A figure, inhuman in shape and size, is galloping along the horizon. When the ice starts digesting him, Cornelius screams.

He wakes up panting and unable to move, lying face-down into the pillow, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. It’s happened before so he rides out his panic, forcing himself to breathe, breathe,  _breathe, there is no ice here, move, carefully, that’s it._  He wipes his lips, turns the pillow the dry side up and scoots closer to John who’s mumbling something in his sleep. Just a dream. There’s nothing to worry about.


	5. Day 7 - "sledge ride"

A year is not such a long period in the grand scheme of things. A blink of an eye, really. And yet it can bring so many changes to a person’s life that one day said person is simply forced to sit down and contemplate their new ways. Which is exactly what John Irving is doing at the moment.

“It’s been like a sledge ride,” he says, so overwhelmed by the conclusion he’s just drawn that any context seems unnecessary.

Cornelius Hickey, a smart and quick-witted man, tilts his head and says what any other smart and quick-witted man would:

“Huh?”

“This, I mean,” clarifies John with a vague gesture. “ _Us_.”

“Huh. You mean, the moment we met, everything went downhill?”

“ _No!_ No, that’s not…”

“I’m _kidding_. Though also not following.”

“It’s just…” John shrugs his shoulders and gets momentarily distracted by the way Cornelius is tying a perfect bow on a Christmas present meant for one of their now mutual friends. “Everything happened so fast? And keeps happening?”

“And yet you’re having fun and don’t want it to stop?”

“Well… yeah. That is, it _was_ scary at first, but now it’s… _nice_.”

“It is. I’m glad we agree on that. I really am.”

John feels the need to say something else, to elaborate on his metaphor to properly express the whirlwind of emotions he’s been experiencing but words escape him, tiny little things just out of reach, blurred by the speed his mind is passing them by. So he stays silent instead, basking in the joy and quiet excitement he thought long gone from his life.


End file.
